2 November 1937 – 13 June 2020
82 Wonderful Years

Service to be held on:
Thursday 18 June, 9.30am

For those who cannot be there with loved ones, please watch the service below.

In Loving Memory of Bryan

Dearly loved husband of Nola. A much loved father and father-in-law of David and Amanda, Jen, Beverley and Kerry, Ian and Linda. A cherished Papa to his 10 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren. A loved brother to Marion and Dorothy, and their families.

Until we meet again

Moving On
by A.B. Patterson

In this war we’re always moving,
Moving on;
When we make a friend another friend has gone;
Should a woman’s kindly face
Make us welcome for a space,
Then it’s boot and saddle, boys, we’re
Moving on.

In the hospitals they’re moving,
Moving on
They’re here today, tomorrow they are gone;
When the bravest and the best
Of the boys you know “go west”,
Then you’re choking down your tears and
Moving on.

Bryan’s family thank you sincerely for your kind support and prayers at this time.

Mulga Bill’s Bicycle 
by A.B. Patterson

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk,
that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse
that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes,
resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town
and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door,
with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said,
“Excuse me, can you ride?”

“See here, young man,” said Mulga Bill,
“from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh,
there’s none can ride like me.
I’m good all round at everything
as everybody knows,
Although I’m not the one to talk –
I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift,
my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim,
a wildcat can it fight.
There’s nothing clothed in hair or hide,
or built of flesh or steel,
There’s nothing walks or jumps, or runs,
on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I’ll sit, while hide will hold
and girths and straps are tight:
I’ll ride this here two-wheeled concern
right straight away at sight.”

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk,
that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man’s Creek,
beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill
and mounted for the fray,
But ‘ere he’d gone a dozen yards
it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees,
just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope
towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch,
it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright
went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves
dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk,
sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring
that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice
as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out
one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet
into the Dean Man’s Creek.

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk,
that slowly swam ashore:
He said, “I’ve had some narrer shaves
and lively rides before;
I’ve rode a wild bull round a yard
to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride
that I’ve encountered yet.
I’ll give that two-wheeled outlaw best;
it’s shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air
and plunge and buck and swerve.
It’s safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek,
we’ll leave it lying still;
A horse’s back is good enough
henceforth for Mulga Bill.”


Wherever a beautiful soul has been, there is a trail of beautiful memories